The Witness
by deducing-opera-ghost
Summary: If you thought their love was a secret… you were wrong.
1. The Wall

**This is just something I wrote for English class. Hope you guys like it. Please review!**

**M.**

* * *

Night was usually cold in this dark, dank corner of the romantic city of Paris. The wind was crisp and smelled of the oncoming autumn season, blowing through the deserted streets like a lone jilted lover.

Suddenly, I felt course and unkempt fur brush my damp, cool skin. Styx— my alley's resident cat— was rubbing its right flank against me. It was being uncharacteristically affectionate tonight despite its normally withdrawn habits. I stared silently into its baleful yellow eyes without comment. Not that I _could_ comment anyway.

The new moon of every month. Religiously, I have counted off the moments in my head, waiting twenty six days in lonely solitude for this single night of happiness. For as long as I could remember, this secluded crevice of Paris has always been 'the meeting spot'. What more fitting a place for forbidden lovers to meet then this shadowy haven?

I can never predict his arrival; he glides as effortless as a shadow, a phantom, a ghost. He makes no sound when he moves, but when he does it is with grace and elegance… almost as if he moves to music only he can hear.

Tonight was no different. When his tall and skeletal figure appeared, I almost jumped, which was saying something. My nerves are made of stone.

_Him_.

He wore a black velvet cloak and a wide brimmed fedora, one that he pulled low over his face to cover it. Inhumanly long fingers sheathed in black leather held the hat in place. Though he was practically at one with darkness, his eyes glowed yellow and cat-like. Had he the power to extinguish their brightness I knew he would have, even if he secretly enjoyed the awesome power and danger they gave him.

Those very same eyes were oddly shiny now, the pupils dilated to an almost invisible size. I sensed it right away— something was very wrong.

He gripped his hands behind his back and paced the floor of the alley like an impatient father waiting the arrival of his baby. He didn't even acknowledge me and his indifference to my presence hurt. It was as if I was some kind of wall…

Like a caged animal, he walked back and forth, back and forth. Styx sat on the floor, gazing hypnotized as if by the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I sat in silence, a concerned and stung silence, waiting fearfully for what the night still had to offer.

_Tap tap tap_.

Footsteps echoed through the street and seemed as loud as the clanging of a bell in the deathly quiet of the sleeping city. They were delicate, as if belonging to a pair of small white feet encased in the finest of slippers.

I felt myself shrivel in disgust.

The high point of my evening had reached its end; now, the more sour side of this moonless night had begun.

_Her_.

How I hated her!

She was dressed in a white dress and black cloak, her porcelain cheeks flushed from exertion. Once seeing him —he was now frozen and staring at her with narrowed eyes— she stopped. I could sense her fear as she tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear and sat down on her knees.

"Forgive me master," she murmured. "I apologize."

There was a moment of extremely tense silence. I could practically feel it.

"Why are you late?"

His voice was controlled yet she, just like I could, could sense the blind rage that hovered beneath its surface.

"I… I… I was unavoidably detained, master."

Without warning, he smashed his fist into my side. My vision teetered on its axis… I felt nothing, yet the pain was unbearable.

"My dear, you must know by now that I hate liars."

_My dear_… the words that were laced with venomous anger and malice somehow still managed to voice his unending love for her. They cut through me like a sword. Or rather, a wrecking ball, since a sword can not do much to hurt me.

She cowered back against me, much to my revulsion.

"Oh… master, please forgive me, forgive me!" she cried and I knew that her tears were sincere; she really did feel remorse for whatever she did. I didn't have a clue as to what it was, but if it threw him into such a rage, then it must be an unforgivable crime.

"You have a lover!" he laughed, a chilling sound that would have sent shiver down my spine had I had one. "A handsome"— he spat the word out as if it was a dirty curse— "rich fool who seeks your hand in marriage!"

She pressed her forehead to his boot, shaking to the point of twitching. I felt no pity at all as I understood the enormity of her crime.

She had betrayed him.

You see, this man— if he could be called that though he was much more— loved this girl dearly. I knew he would die a long and painful death if she was not beside him at all times and no one else (for he was insanely jealous).

I was no human: I could see what others can not. In her sparkling blue eye, I saw no love. I saw pity, pity that this man lived in eternal solitude. I saw reverence to his majesty and supremacy. I saw dependence in his praise and comforting words. But love? No. She did not love him.

Not as much I.

There was nothing but her ragged breathing for what seemed like an eternity, until he bent down beside her and tilted her chin upward.

"Please my dear," he murmured. "Do not cry. I can not bear to see you cry." His voice broke, horrified that he made his perfect little angel shed a single tear.

Suddenly, he swept her up in his arms, where she lay un-protesting. She was relieved and contented, I knew, and very soon she went to sleep, her head resting tenderly on his shoulder.

Our shadows lay intertwined together, a secret testimony of unrequited love: bony shafts of darkness wrapped around a liquid dress that covered them both. There was Styx, observing with disturbing awareness, as if he knew exactly what was going on.

And then there was I… the wall they leaned against, the wall that shielded them from harm and nurtured their strange affection against my will. I, who loved a human, a human who loved me no more then any architect loved an expertly built building.

Nothing more.

Styx ran its claws across my surface in an almost comforting gesture, but its touch was a horrible mockery of what I was, what could never be.

And so, like every month on the new moon, I cried in silence.

No one heard me and the city of Paris went on sleeping.


	2. The Mask

**Ok, so I lied… this isn't a one-shot. I just couldn't help adding one or two more chapters to the story. Just think of it a two-shot. Or a three-shot, depends on how much I get into it the whole "inanimate objects voicing their inner thoughts" thing. Many thanks to those who have reviewed!**

**M.**

* * *

He cried.

They were silent sobs that made his body tremble, almost dropping my fragile frame as he parted us and placed me the polished wood of the desk. Tears flowed unheeded from his sunken eyes, across the ridges and valleys that made up his face, across his malformed mouth and dripped from his chin.

I always liked to think of them as a poison of sorts, tears… a drink that could stain the soul if too much was ingested and break it if there was not enough, like a brittle flower stalk depraved of water.

Ahh… just another one of life's little quirks.

I lay on the desk, watching his sadness subsided quietly into silence, a silence that was quite the opposite of peaceful acceptance or understanding. If a hot, thick fog had filled the room it couldn't be as heavy and frightening as the calm that had descended upon both of us, no noise permeating it except for the ragged sound of his breathing.

Silence.

I had known him for almost twenty years now and he _still_ scared me silly.

It's not like he'd actually hurt me… making another mask —especially one of _my_ beauty— would be too much of a bother to him. He didn't dare smash me. At least I hoped didn't.

The crumpled figure on the floor rose slowly, towering above me like some stone angel of doom. I had a crazy impulse to hop away as fast I could in the other direction, but I stayed put. I hadn't exactly mastered the art of locomotion yet.

"The boy…" Erik whispered to himself softly. He began to pace back forth, an annoying habit that he tended to do when thinking and planning. And nothing was scarier then Erik when he was planning.

"She pushes away my affections and completely disregards our lessons for that boy!" he continued, his face contorting grossly with anger. "Perhaps it's not her I should punish…"

Oh no.

He had stopped moving, his painfully thin forefinger tapping his chin. His eyes had that misty quality to them as they always did when his mind had a seemingly brilliant idea.

"What if," he pondered, "the Changy boy was to… shall we say… _disappear_ from this portrait? The world would hardly miss another puffed-up popinjay of an aristocrat anyway… it would be a mistake, a tragic accident. She would cry... yes, she would cry... but she would eventually forget him... yes, that is it... she would forget him and the only remaining obstacle in my path would disapear; vanish; poof!"

I felt a sinking feeling in my—er, stomach?—as his rant ended with a self-satisfied smile and a crack of the knuckles. He took a seat in front of the piano, playing a soft melody.

He was going to kill the boy.

Personally, I never cared much for that girl. I found her child-like and whiny yet at the same time a liar and a cheat. She could not love Erik, yet she lead him on. She didn't even try to resist him. She just… went along for the ride.

Maybe she thought it was a game. Maybe she thought Erik would soon tire of her and leave her to marry her golden-locked sweetheart.

But she was the only thing he had ever wanted, besides a normal face. He would stop at nothing to possess her, to have her, all to himself.

Somehow, as I watched him gather his Punjab lasso and tie me in place, I felt that no one in this twisted fairytale was meant for happiness.

* * *

The boy's home was grand, as expected. But even its fancy high gates could not hold back Erik and he made his way like a shadow across the lawn, only the occasional flash of white betraying him (well, just because _he_ had the ability to become a ghost, didn't mean _I_ did too!)

I could do nothing but silently observe in increasing alarm as he climbed the wall of the mansion, using the minute spaces between the stones to anchor himself and with the lithe of a spider, swing himself onto the first-floor balcony. The image of Erik, creeping vertically alongside the side of a building and making absolutely no noise beneath ink-black sky, then sneaking into an innocent boy's room made my porcelain skin crawl.

Don't do this Erik, not for the sake of someone who doesn't love you!

The young man—what was his name?—Raoul?— was lying in bed, his head propped against the headboard, obviously awake. There was no light in the room yet I could see a peaceful smile on his face, his fingers playing with what seemed like a piece of tissue at first. Then, upon second glance, I realized that it was a handkerchief. A _lady's_ handkerchief.

Erik and I reached the same conclusion at the same time.

Christine.

A feral, animal growl escaped his lips involuntarily, one that was—_unlike _all of Erik's movements— _quite_ loud.

Raoul clutched the handkerchief in his fist and sat straight up in bed, gazing with a mixture of suspicion and fear at the balcony doors.

With a curse, Erik backed away and jumped down from the ledge (the insane animal! A jump from this height could've killed us!). The element of surprise had been snatched away from him in a naked moment. There was no way he would be able to murder the boy now without someone hearing. And if the news of the boy's slaughter reached Christine, she would have no doubt as to whom was the culprit.

The aspect wasn't exactly savory as, perhaps, an unexplained death of the boy, in which the Christine would suspect nothing… maybe run to him and cry on his shoulder from sadness as he comforted her…

"_There, there dear, it's alright. You still have your whole life ahead of you."_

Yes… I don't think things were going according to his plan.

As we landed neatly on the grass below, the balcony doors burst open. He did not turn his head, and therefore I could not see anything, but I heard the clicks of the safety catch of a revolver being released and the boy's shout at the retreating cloaked figure.

"I know who you and I will not let you hurt Christine!"

I felt every muscle in his body stiffen as Raoul said the girl's name.

"Stop! I swear, I'll shoot!" came the terrified and defiant command when Erik continued to walk away.

There was a silence in which every sound around ceased and then— the crack of a pistol, a whoosh of air, a hiss of pain, an uttered curse.

He had shot Erik!

No! Wait… no, the bullet had only grazed his shoulder, but I saw that it had broken the skin and blood trickled from the fresh wound.

We ran.

* * *

Erik sat in his shirttails, quietly dabbing at the wound, no sound escaping his lips even though I knew it must have hurt like hell.

"I will not let you hurt Christine!"

That was the only phrase he seemed to have the ability to murmur. Perhaps it resounded so deeply inside him because he had never hurt Christine, in his eyes. He had only loved her; perhaps his love was something so repulsive, so obscene to human nature that it hurt her?

He sat there, mulling things over until the sun rose (though you could never tell in Erik's window-less house), arced over the sky, then set once more.

Hours! And the only thing he did was repeat the damnable sentence and think. And only what seemed like an eternity did he pick me up precariously in his fingers and stare at me in such a dejected manner that I felt a strange tug at what would've been my heart, had I been human.

"I hurt her. And I never wanted to hurt her."

Sometimes I wished that I was human, so that I would feel all the wonderful little emotions only they got the privilege to feel and I never knew that anyone would ever understand this yearning.

But in the first time since I knew him, I was certain beyond a doubt that Erik knew exactly how it was to see something, yet never be able to experience it.

Suddenly, I was glad I wasn't a man.


	3. Erik

**Well, here is the final chapter of 'The Witness'. It strayed far from what I wanted it to be, but I guess that's alright, since the story is the one that writes itself. Instead of doing this chapter from a real object's point-of-view, I did it from the POV of something (or someone) that the world _thinks_ is a thing devoid of human feelings. Thank you for everyone who has reviewed this story and have enjoyed it; your opinion is valued! Happy Holidays to all and please review!**

* * *

**Erik**

The streets were crowded with people, men and women swaddled in thick scarves and heavy wool hats, their arms laden with boxes and their heads ducked low against the cold wind.

It was the first time I had ventured out in public in a while and there was something strange about moving through the throng of people without attracting a stare or an odd look or a scream of fear. My fists clenched tightly enough to draw blood whenever my shoulder brushed someone else's, a neutral contact that I felt would escalate into violence in very little time. Yet everyone was walking with a determined gait in their stride, paying me no mind other then the occasional murmured apology; they all had a reason and a purpose, intent on reaching a destination.

Except me.

Truly, I did not know what had brought me out here, away from the shelter of my apartments. Perhaps it was to brood, but on what, I did not know. It had been weeks since the incident with the boy and things had changed quite a bit since. I had moved the location of Christine's lessons from that dank alley to a wooded area near the park (an atmosphere much more pleasing to her then the last) and increased them to twice a week instead of once a month; I insisted for her to call me by my first name rather then master; I handled her with gentleness and care, as if she was a sugar-spun doll. To my utter horror, my attitude worried and confused her, but she did not dare to ask what was wrong, for fear of angering me.

My kindness was so alien that it disturbed her.

How could I have been so blinded by my selfish needs? How could I, by loving her, could make her _hate_ me?

The snow crunched beneath my feet and I felt as if I was walking in circles, seeing the same streets, the same stores, the same faces. But no… that wasn't right. Faces out here only lasted a spilt second before disappearing forever. In my world, however, faces had a more… _lasting_ effect.

I did not know how long I continued to float along the cobblestone paths, but it was long enough that all the people one by one departed and the streets were soon quiet and empty of the life I hated so much.

Suddenly, something flashed in my peripheral vision and I lifted my face hesitantly, the light from the gas jets of the lamp post making a particular store display glimmer with brilliance.

Wedding dresses, made of fine, gauzy material hung from the lifeless bodies of their mannequins. The palest of pinks and lavenders glared back at me unappreciatively, unhappy at the close proximity a monster like me had with something of their exquisite beauty, but I ignored them; my gaze was fixed on the middle dress. It was white, the traditional color of a bride. The cloth of the skirt billowed magnificently around the mannequin's legs, the silk bodice cinched around its cold waist.

My hands were splayed against the glass, my eyes wide with the hunger of a child glimpsing candy for the first time. I could see golden hair cascading down the back of the dress… pale shapely arms slipping into the dainty sleeves… small, translucent feet peeking shyly from beneath the hem… a lovely arched neck from the shimmering collar.

It was my horrifying dream, my exquisite nightmare.

"It's pretty," said a high-pitched voice somewhere from the vicinity of my knee.

The delicate threadwork of my poisonous fantasy was ripped to shreds in seconds. I whipped around to see a small girl dressed in a raggedy, ankle length coat, her frizzy hair tucked haphazardly beneath a badly knitted red cap.

She looked up at me as I radiated hostility and rage from every pore, my stance that of a panther poised to leap upon its prey.

"I never had a dress like that," she sincerely. "I've never had a dress at all, in fact."

I stared.

She jutted her chin the dress's direction. "Is that for your lady, monsieur?"

By all means, this girl should be dead. I should have strangled her for ruining my pitiful desires and intruding on my sweet delusion, for assuming that someone like myself _had_ a lady, for not being the wiser and running away as fast as her legs could carry her, for being unafraid for me. I glowered menacingly at her and took a few steps back, putting distance between us.

"Hasn't your mother ever warned you not to talk strangers, little girl?" I hissed quietly. "Perhaps you should hurry along home, before a gruesome fate befalls you."

Whirling around, I began walking toward my home, the place where I should have never ventured out of in the first place.

"I don't _have_ a home. Or a mother, come to think of it."

If I was shocked by her reply, I did not show it. I acted as if she had not spoken and continued on my way.

"You really should buy that dress for your lady!" she called out. "She would find it lovely."

Suddenly, I stilled.

"How are you so sure I have a lady?" I asked between clenched teeth, my voice almost inaudible.

"You really like that dress," she replied nonchalantly and I could almost see her shrug.

"And what if this lady of mine does not like dresses?"

"_Every_ girl likes dresses!"

"What if she does not dresses from someone like me?"

"What if she does? You really can't know before you try."

"What if she hates the dress?" I asked, my voice rising angrily. " And what if I can not buy her another one because I am too cowardly to try again? Hmm? Have you thought of that, you incompetent little girl?"

There was no reply.

I turned around slowly and was greeted by the quiet, empty street. The little girl was gone.

Groaning, I buried my face in my hands. What little sanity I had in the first place was beginning to slip away… I was so lonely, so starved for human attention that I was making up people and fabricating conversations with them!

But I only wanted the attention of one human being.

My eye were snagged by the cloth of the white wedding gown behind the store glass, and a yearning so deep that it hurt, began to blossom in my stomach.

_You really can't know before you try._

I walked once more toward the display as if in a trance, imagining myself lifting away its matching veil from Christine's face.

How long would I put myself—and her—through this torment? How long would I consent to living in the shadow of that boy?

My foot stepped on something soft and cushioning. I glanced down and with trembling fingers, I bent over to pick up the badly knitted red cap.

It was time for a choice to be made… by both me and Christine.

I cleared my throat nervously and shifted the package from one arm to the other, the plastic it was wrapped in making rustling sounds. With a shaking arm, I knocked on the door.

"Coming!" the beautifully modulated voice that I had created called out, and I almost turned around right there. Before I could, however, the door was wrenched opened and suddenly, Christine was standing in front of me, a shocked look gracing her face. I pretended it did not bother me.

"Hello Christine," I said gravely, inclining my head in greeting. "I… I have brought you a gift."

She gaped at me for a few moments before nodding dumbly and moving aside. "Come in, ma—Erik.

I stepped into her small apartment, feeling out of place in her normal home. I did not belong here anymore then I did in the streets among people. I gripped my package until my knuckles turned white as I heard the click of the door close behind me. She breezed past me and I inhaled her intoxicating scent.

"I was not expecting you Erik," Christine confessed as she led me to her equally minute kitchen and sat down precariously on the edge of her seat. "Are we having our lessons…here?"

Her voice a small, submissive: yielding to my power, to my will. Wasn't this how I wanted it to be?

"Lift your head up Christine," I whispered. "Look at me when you talk to me. Your face brings me peace."

She blushed and lifted her chin.

There was a long awkward silence until I decided to break it and held out my arms. "I have brought you a gift," I repeated.

She started, as if only just noticing my baggage.

"Oh! Erik, you did not have to!" Christine took the bag from my hands and I almost dropped it when her finger brushed mine, even if it was gloved. It was I who held her in my arms, I who instigated contact… but when it was _her_ who reached out for touch, it was a different story. I felt sick, sick with something I would not name, I could not name.

I was barely aware of her hands unwrapping the plastic, of her happy babble ceasing as soon as the white dress fell away from it concealing cover.

We stared at the gown in silence, waiting for it to disappear so that we may continue our lessons and push away the terrifying possibilities that came with the innocent piece of clothing.

"Oh Erik…" she whispered finally.

"Christine," I said abruptly, "will you put that dress on for me?"

She stared at me, a hot flush creeping into her cheeks.

"Put it on?" she asked, her voice below whisper.

I nodded, and when she did not reply I said quietly:

"Tell me your answer Christine. Please do not be afraid." I paused. "Will you put on the dress for me now?"

There was a silence that might have been an eternity and with painstaking slowness, she shook her head no.

A thousand arrows pierced my heart.

"Will you ever put it on?" I choked out, wondering why I was so keen on torturing myself even more when her answer was as clear as day. She did not want me.

"Maybe."

At first, I thought I had heard wrong. "Maybe?" I repeated dumbly.

Christine bowed her head. "A year ago it would have been maybe. A week ago it would have been maybe, Erik. And now…" she flushed even deeper so that I could almost feel the heat radiating off of her. She stood up abruptly, the gown knotted into her arms. "I will go hang up my gift now."

She turned away and left the kitchen as I stared at her retreating figure, her single word echoing in my head.

Maybe.

Her fingers rubbed the cloth of the gown, held it close to her body, her warmth heating its cold body, giving life to the otherwise useless dress.

Maybe.

If a dress could talk, I swear it would've jumped for joy.


End file.
